Vicariously
by koutaevans
Summary: Inspired by a line from the song "Vicariously" by Tool. CHARACTER DEATH AND MENTAL ILLNESS. Rated T for murder. I do not own Hetalia or any of it's characters.


Hey everyone! It's me! So, I wrote this just because... you know, honestly, I don't know. I was listening to Pandora, and a Tool song came on. One of the lines inspired me. It's really messed up compared to what I usually write, and I know the ending is pretty dumb. Please don't think I'm a horrible person for writing this! xD I really didn't know where I was going with it, but when I finished I got the feeling that I belong in an insane asylum. So, I guess I'll let you read it yourselves.

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"He used a poison in his tea

Kissed him goodbye..."

Numbness. That's what I felt, at first. The numbness in my fingers as I fumbled with the lid to the vial I was holding. Inside that vial was liquid death- a substance which would slowly eat away the only thing he loved and held dear. Why was I doing this? I don't want him to die. The thrill; the sick kick I gained from killing. I'm a monster. I hate hurting people, seeing them collapse and a human life lose potential- though, at the same time the feeling of adrenaline and pleasure that shoots through my veins is enough to wash away any source of guilt I feel. The top came off with a little pop, the open vial now hovering dangerously close to the cup in which death shall be served to my lover. I let the vial tip slowly, the cyan-colored liquid for which the poison is named splashing into the strong English breakfast tea, instantly blending into the bitter-looking brown liquid without a trace. It looked so pristine, I thought, in that porcelain cup decorated with flora and light, happy colors.

With a shaky hand- whether from anxiety, excitement, or utter horror, I wasn't sure- I picked up the tea cup and sauntered into the dining room. Outside it was raining, thunder echoing in the distance and lightning lighting up the large room with every flash; the large, ceiling-height windows really set for an eerie atmosphere. Perfect. I set the cup down on the long dining table, the light clinking noise blown up to a million times it's actual sound, echoing in the silence between the last roll of thunder and the one that's sure to come. I wrapped my arms around the man in the head chair's shoulders, planting a small kiss on his temple. A small sigh escaped his lips; he reached for the cup and grasped it in his fragile hands, pale skin glowing delicately in the candlelight. He raised the cup to his mouth, and then stopped, lips hovering near the rim. "Thank you. You know, Alfred, this is why I love you. You're always there for me, even in the middle of the night." My breath hitched, a little choking sound getting caught in my throat.

"I... I love you too..." I managed, pain clutching at my heart like a vice. Damn it all, why am I doing this? Arthur let out a light chuckle, bringing the cup back up to his lips. I felt a ripping pain in my chest, an urge to scream and knock the teacup out of his hand, but I realized it was too late when he took a small sip from the poisoned beverage. I felt a pinch in the back of my eyes, but the anxiety was making me shake like a leaf. The room was utterly silent, the effects of the poison having yet to take affect. A roll of thunder, a flash of lightning, and Arthur was on the ground, writhing in pain. A scream ripped out of his throat, and I couldn't help but smirk viciously. I let out a little giggle, kneeling down beside him as he arched his back, the pain in his gut no doubt unbearable. I began howling with laughter, all the while watching my love squirm on the cold tile floor.

The Brit screamed again, his usually calm, beautiful green eyes clouded with fear; tears streamed down his paling cheeks, which were now dusted with a blue color that matched the shade of my crazed eyes, or so I assumed. "Why?" he choked feebly, his quivering fingers reaching to grasp my shirt. He coughed, retracting his hand and clutching at his hair; a small amount of blood dribbling down to his chin. I felt tears pouring down my face, a manic grin still stuck on my face. I put my hands on the floor, one next to each side of his head. I lowered my head to rest my forehead gently on his, tears spattering his panic-stricken face. His breathing became more shallow, his mouth gaping, trying to swallow any air that he could.  
"You know, there's no use. You're going to die. You're going to die at my hand. Will you still love me?" I murmured, earning nothing but a wheeze in response. His eyes were glazing over, his struggle getting weaker. I shifted and pressed my lips to his. Another flash of lightning, and his life was over; his emerald eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling, his body entirely limp. Hate for myself boiled in my gut, and the feeling of satisfaction that usually washed away the guilt didn't kick in. I cried out, throwing my arms over the only thing in the world that had actually mattered to me. Who am I? I'm not myself anymore. I'm a monster. A psychopath. Above all, I was a murderer. I looked at the gold band on my finger; I had taken his life, which I had promised to share with him for all eternity. We couldn't die, unless by physical or bodily harm. Destroy the host body, and you destroy the soul.

I curled up into a little ball beside him, my wails echoing around the devoid room, drowned out occasionally by the thunder. I didn't dare to move from his side, if by some miracle he returned and forgave me. By morning, I couldn't scream anymore; I simply couldn't feel. Numbness had claimed my body, my emotions- my brain. Even the next day, when the housekeeper walked in on the scene and cried in terror, I did nothing to stop her from calling the police. Not even when the police showed up and took me away, wrenching me away from the life I knew, did I make a sound. And now, I sit in this room. White. Tied up. Still, they have not heard my voice. No tears. No laughing. I couldn't even eat. Unresponsive. Fed through IVs. Catatonia. That's what they said I had. I felt like an animal, being poked and prodded into speaking or interacting. I couldn't. I had been locked deep inside my mind, where I knew I could hang onto memories of my old life. Even now, five months later, as a doctor approaches with a sterile-looking needle, I do nothing. He sticks it in my arm, a thick liquid releasing into my veins. I felt nothing, though that was nothing new. My vision faded. My hearing, my sense of smell. No more antiseptic. Blackness. Nothing but blackness.

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R&R. Open to critiquing. I'll have something happier and perhaps fluffy up soon.

~Paigem


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